


3 Is A Magic Number

by ShameInYou



Category: Blind Melon
Genre: Other, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:25:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4813160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShameInYou/pseuds/ShameInYou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shannon's feelings during the recording of the Blind Melon song "3 is A Magic Number"</p>
            </blockquote>





	3 Is A Magic Number

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to anyone who still reads. Bear with me. It's taking a while to get over this writer's block. I'll be back there one day.

_“Three…oh it’s the magic number. Yah it is. It’s the magic number. Somewhere in that ancient mystic trinity, you’ll get three; it’s the magic number…”_

He backed away from the mike, licking his dry lips. He ran a hand through messy, short and choppy hair. He paced around the studio, mind racing, trying to figure out the quickest way to score. He needed it really bad tonight. His skin itched, his chest hurt, and he felt nauseous like he could barf all over the switchboard.

Blue eyes darted to the glass separating him from the control room. He watched as engineers and the producer worked, listening to playback. He could hear the song inside the studio. He wiggled his fingers, dirty and cracked from drug abuse. This was surely his lowest point but he didn’t even think about it. Everyone enabled him. The most important task was getting this song done, going on tour and promoting the new album.

He cleared his throat and walked out of the studio. He couldn’t fucking stand it any longer.

“Shannon!” He heard the producer say.

He ignored him as he walked over to his collared shirt that lay on the leather sofa. He unwrapped his cell phone from it, opening it up and dialing a number he had memorized by heart. He paced around the room; hand on his forehead as he spoke to his dealer.

“Hey man, I need some fucking blow, like now. Yeah…Uh..”

The producer walked up to Shannon, worried that the singer might leave. He tapped him on his shoulder.

“Shannon, how about we do that take again?”

“Give me about 20 minutes and I’ll meet you there. Gotta stop by the ATM” Shannon muttered in the phone.

He frowned when he felt someone tap his shoulder. He looked over. “WHAT?”

“The take Shannon, how about let’s do another take, I need you to be slightly higher on the 1st verse” The producer said hesitantly, knowing the singer had a reputation of being erratic and not liking being told what to do.

“Another take? Man I just did that shit like 5 times. That’s good enough man. I gotta fucking go!” Shannon exclaimed, heart racing as he closed his cell phone and threw it on the couch.

Hand placed on his shoulder. Assuring voice.

“This is the last one, I promise, just this one take. You should get it this time. C’mon” The producer smiled.

Inside that rotten body of his was still a soul somewhere. Shannon looked at him, bouncing on his heels, sweaty and sucked his teeth.

“Fine, one more fucking take.” He groaned walking back into the studio and clearing his throat.

Everyone knew he was a fucking addict. Hell he even knew he was an addict. Everyone knew he completed rehab and relapsed. He did too. He felt no fucking guilt. This was what he needed. He had to please the people, the fans, the record company. He couldn’t let them down. This shit helped him keep going. This was like his medicine.

He put the headphones on and watched the producer. It wasn’t long before playback started and he sang again.

_“Three…oh it’s the magic number. Yah it is. It’s the magic number. Somewhere in that ancient mystic trinity, you’ll get three; it’s the magic number…”_

Minutes later playback halted.

“How was it?” Shannon asks toying with a wire in the studio.

A few minutes of tweaking and the producer answered.

“Perfect. I think we’re done here.”

“Fucking finally.” Shannon muttered, running out of there as fast as he could.

He threw on his collared shirt, not buttoning it, put on his beige hat, slipped some shades on to hide his hungry and tired eyes, and grabbed his cell phone, running as fast as he could out the building to meet up with his dealer to score.

There wasn’t a god damn thing anyone could do. No one could stop him.


End file.
